Texas True (6 page)

“Why, honey, that sounds just perfect,” Bernice exclaimed. “Wait till your mother sees him!”

Will shot her a half-irritated look, a shadow passing across his face, before he pinned his glance on Beau. “Are you coming, Beau? We still need to rustle you some gear from the bunkhouse.”

“I'm on your six.” Beau pushed his plate aside and rose from the table. As much as he would have liked another cup of coffee, it was clear Will wanted to get the day's work started.

As they strode across the yard side by side, Beau couldn't help noticing the rather grim-lipped expression his brother had.

“Is there a problem, Will?”

“Just thinking about that damned foal,” he admitted in a near mutter. “I'd planned on gelding any colt that was born so he'd be gentle enough for Erin to ride.”

Beau nodded in understanding. “And now you can't afford to geld him. A palomino stud can be worth his weight in gold, especially if he can pass that color on to some of his babies.”

Beau knew there was no guarantee of that. Palomino was a color, not a breed of horse. And breeding golden horses was as chancy as rolling dice in Las Vegas.

“I'll just have to convince Erin that she can have the next foal born,” Will concluded in that same pigheaded tone Beau had heard their father use.

“That would be a waste of your time. She's already named him,” Beau reminded him. “You aren't going to change her mind now.”

“I can't have her taking on a stallion as her first horse,” Will replied with an emphatic nod. “You know what a handful a young stud colt can be. Unpredictable as hell, even rank sometimes. Too many blasted things can go wrong. Erin could end up getting hurt bad.”

Beau shrugged off his brother's concern. “You'll just have to cross that bridge when it comes. If it comes. Right now the foal isn't even a day old. Put some trust in Sky's training. He isn't going to let Erin have the colt until he's sure she can manage him. Things will work out. You'll see.”

Will gave Beau a pained look. “I can tell you've never been a father, especially to a girl. So many blasted things can go wrong. And in a few years, when she's old enough for boys, it'll be ten times worse.”

“And she has her mother's looks.” Beau shook his head, savoring the rare chance to needle his brother. “Given a choice, would you rather she'd been born plain as mud like you?”

“Don't ask. And I don't even want to guess what Tori's going to say about all this. She's even more protective of Erin than I am.”

They walked in silence a moment before Beau spoke. “What happened between you and Tori anyway? You never said.”

Will cast him a stormy look. “It's over. Dead and buried. So mind your own cattle.”

 

In the last two centuries, little about the annual spring roundup on a cattle ranch had changed. Its purpose remained the same: to gather all the cattle that had wintered in sheltered canyon pastures in preparation for moving them to their summer graze on the plain above the Caprock. Once the gather was made, the herd would be sorted, culled, and counted. Pregnant cows and heifers would be separated from the rest, and any calves or yearlings that had been missed the previous fall would be branded, vaccinated, tagged, and, if destined to be steers, castrated. For the cowhands and bosses, that meant long days of backbreaking work, days that could stretch into two weeks, or even longer.

After only three days in the saddle, Beau was sore and bone-weary. Yet, despite the discomfort, he was secretly pleased that he remembered how to cowboy. Admittedly he was a little rusty, but the old skills were coming back—along with a level of contentment that was rare to him.

Between the clear spring days, the hard physical work, and the easy camaraderie with the cowhands, who weren't above teasing the “dude” in their midst, Beau could feel his tightly clenched nerves unwinding. It was as if his whole body had begun to breathe again; he was even sleeping the whole night through without waking up. Truthfully he couldn't remember feeling this at ease with himself in years.

He wasn't about to admit it to his brother, but Beau was enjoying this break from Washington and those long days of sitting behind a desk dealing with stacks of dreary paperwork and harried people who wanted everything yesterday. And the open country around him was a welcome change from that hellish D.C. traffic.

Open
was something of a relative term, Beau acknowledged. This particular section of the ranch they were working stretched below the escarpment. It was a veritable maze of gullies, draws, and box canyons. And every inch of it needed to be searched.

In his side vision, he caught a glimpse of rusty red hide. He snapped his head around just as a pair of steers trotted out of view, heading up a brushy side canyon. Touching a spur to the horse's flank, he reined the gelding after them. Jutting rocks marked the canyon's entrance. Beau had already ridden past them in pursuit of the cattle before he recognized the distinctive formation that identified his exact location on the ranch. Abruptly he reined his horse to a plunging stop to look around, letting the half-forgotten knowledge come flooding back.

This small arroyo lay along the ranch's boundary line that butted against Prescott's land. The canyon itself was Y-shaped, dividing into two branches. He glanced up the left branch, recalling that it ended in a sheltered rock wall where he and Will had gone as boys to view the Indian petroglyphs scattered over its surface, making up their own wild stories as to the meaning of them.

But it was the second branch that claimed the whole of his attention now. Where once a clear stream of water had tumbled down from the rock and spilled to the pool on the canyon floor, now there was nothing but a dry wash, overgrown with scraggly brush and mesquite. Rusty strands of barbed wire blocked the path that had led to the stream. A crudely painted sign hung crookedly from the fence's top wire:

NO TRESPASSING

PROPERTY OF PRESCOTT RANCH

Beau glared at the board, surprised that he could still feel the anger of years ago so strongly.

“It still smarts, doesn't it?” Will's voice traveled across the stillness.

Turning, Beau discovered that his brother had ridden up to join him. “How many times did Bull pound in our heads when we were kids that no Tyler ever sold an inch of Rimrock land—that a Tyler would cut off his roping hand first. That little canyon and its water was Rimrock property.” Beau jabbed a finger in its direction, his voice tight and low with barely suppressed anger. “And Bull sold it. And not just to anybody. No, he sold to Ferguson Prescott, the man Bull hated. And the purchase price was one dollar and ‘other valuable considerations.' What the hell was he thinking?”

“It never made sense to me either,” Will admitted.

“Didn't you ever ask him about it?” Beau challenged as his horse moved restlessly beneath him.

“Once. A few months ago, I was going through the files and ran across the original bill of sale. I figured it was time I learned the truth behind it, so I took the bill of sale in to him. The minute I showed it to him, he started swearing, telling me it was none of my damned business and I wasn't to ask him about it again.”

“Swearing and shouting at people were the two things Bull did best,” Beau said, easily visualizing the scene Will described. “I'll bet he threatened to kick you out if you brought it up again.”

“More or less,” Will admitted.

But it was the lack of any resentment in his voice that Beau couldn't understand. “That's where you and I are different. When he told me it was his way or hit the road, I told him what he could do with this ranch and his money and took the road.”

“So that's how it happened,” Will murmured.

“With a lot more yelling back and forth.” He hadn't expected to feel all the old bitterness so strongly. “The essence was that he didn't give a damn if I was his son, that there was no way I was going to live off him.”

“That's in the past. Nothing good comes out of dwelling in it,” Will stated, pragmatic as always.

“Unless you can learn something.” Beau let his glance wander over the dry streambed and the crudely painted sign on the barbed wire fence strung across it. “To get this land from Bull, old man Prescott must have had something on him.”

“Like what?” Will sounded skeptical.

“Some secret Bull didn't want people to know. It's the only thing that makes sense,” Beau declared, then voiced the question that automatically came to mind. “Wonder what it was?”

“I doubt if it was anything like that.” Will dismissed the possibility with a shake of his head. “More than likely Bull lost a bet to him. You know what a sore loser he was. And losing a bet to old man Prescott would stick in his craw big-time.”

“It might have been that simple,” Beau conceded, then frowned, trying to remember another tidbit from the past. “Am I wrong, or is this the canyon where legend has it that lost Spanish gold is buried?”

The legend had been part of Texas for as long as anyone could remember. The story went that a band of lost Spanish explorers, pursued by Indians, had become trapped in the canyon and managed to hide the chest of gold coins they were transporting before the Indians attacked and wiped them out.

“That's the way the story goes—if you believe that stuff.” The line of Will's mouth crooked in cynical derision. “There isn't an ounce of truth in it. But who knows, it could be why old man Prescott wanted it. I know for a fact he had a couple men with shovels out, digging all over the place and sifting the dirt through a box screen. I later heard they never found a damned thing.”

“All that digging is probably what disrupted the spring,” Beau guessed. “Remember when we used to fill our canteens from it? That water was always cold and good.”

But Will had a more practical view. “And the cattle didn't have to walk so far for water when the spring was flowing.”

Flashing him an amused look, Beau remarked, “You are definitely Bull's son.”

There was a moment of hesitation, as if Will was debating some issue with himself. “Keep this under your hat, brother, but I'm working on a plan to get this canyon back.”

“What?” The question came out, mingled with a near laugh. “Just what makes you think the syndicate would sell it? They sure as hell don't need the money.”

“It just so happens that the syndicate doesn't own this particular parcel,” Will informed him. “I did some checking and discovered that, for whatever reason, this land is part of the Prescott family trust. And our fine, upstanding congressman Garn Prescott is the trustee.”

“So Garn would have the power to sell it back, assuming you can talk him into it.” Beau swatted away a pesky horsefly buzzing around his face. “It explains why you asked him to do the eulogy at the funeral. You're trying to get all palsy with him.”

“I told you before, we need allies, not enemies. And it so happens Prescott's up for reelection this fall. I'm prepared to make a hefty donation to his campaign in exchange for this worthless little canyon that's too steep for grazing.”

“And you think he'll agree to that?”

Will's horse swung its nose around in an attempt to dislodge the fly that had landed on its neck. Will absently brushed off the fly. “Maybe he will. Maybe not. But there's more than one way to skin a coyote.”

In his mind's eye, Beau saw again that scene at the house after the funeral when he'd observed Garn Prescott clearly making a move on Tori. It couldn't have been more obvious that Prescott wanted to get to know her a lot better.

“I'll bet Tori could talk him into it.”

“Leave Tori out of this!” Will snapped.

Beau had seen his brother angry before, but not this hot. “Sorry.” He wisely refrained from mentioning the way Garn had been hanging all over her, recognizing jealousy when he saw it. “Maybe I could help,” he suggested instead. “I've never known a politician yet who didn't have his finger in some dirty pie. Ferreting out nasty secrets is part of what I do for a living.”

Will briefly considered the offer, then shook it away with a half-irritated sigh. “As much as I would enjoy bringing that pompous jackass down, I'd rather this be an up-front deal.” He gathered up his horse's reins. “We've got cattle to find. We'd better get to it.”

“I spotted a couple headed up the canyon's other fork.” Beau swung his horse around and brought it up level with Will's bay gelding. With curiosity nagging at him, he asked, “Did Prescott have anything to do with you and Tori splitting up?”

“Does it matter?” Will fired back, going all tight-jawed on him. “It happened. And it's over.”

Beau doubted it was over as far as his brother was concerned. “You two seemed to fit together so well, like you were made for each other. There were times when I'd see you with Tori and would feel a little envious because you clearly had something special going.”

“Funny you should say that,” he countered. “You see, I always thought Natalie was the special one for you.”

Beau recoiled slightly. The mere sound of her name was like being stabbed. It was impossible to think of her without remembering the feel of her in his arms, the warmth of her body quivering beneath him, or the welling of emotion that choked him.

When Beau failed to say anything, Will spoke. “You know Bull was always certain the ranch would pull you back here. I always thought you'd come back for Natalie.”

“After I got back from Afghanistan . . .” Beau paused, searching for the right words. “Let's just say . . . things changed.”

“But not the way you feel about her. I saw the way you looked at her that night in the barn when the foal was born. You didn't seem to be aware of anything—or anyone—else.”

Beau didn't bother to deny it. “You're forgetting that she's married.”